Sons of Fenris

by Lee Lightner

Meanwhile, the Fist of Russ closed on the Vinco Redemptor. Both vessels exchanged torpedo fire. Weapon battery rounds streaked across the void between the two vessels. Ripples of blue energy ran across both hulls as shields absorbed the weapons fire that splashed into them. As the defensive shields overloaded from the strain, secondary explosions blossomed on the hulls of both vessels.

  The ships raced towards each other. It was time for battle to be joined in earnest. In their zeal, both vessels accelerated, closing the void between them faster than either anticipated. Simultaneously, the command on both ships realised the potential danger of collision. The Vinco Redemptor cut to starboard and the Fist of Russ did the same. Port Dark Angels weapons and port Space Wolf weapons erupted in violent broadsides. The ships tore into each other.

  Finally, the Vinco Redemptor’s bombardment cannons pivoted to port. The strafing run of the Space Wolf Thunderhawks had concentrated its fire on the bombardment cannons. Now, Berek would find out if their gambit had paid off.

  Two of the four cannons were unable to bring themselves to bear upon the smaller cruiser. The

  Space Wolf vessel shuddered from the salvo of the remaining two as wide holes appeared in the cruiser’s hull.

  The Fist of Russ was severely damaged, as was the Vinco Redemptor, but the vessels had finished their pass. As the starships widened the gap between them, each looked to distance itself from the other to repair and regroup. The Fist of Russ had succeeded. Space Wolf drop-pods accelerated down towards Lethe. Berek’s radical strategy had worked, the battle would indeed be decided on the ground.

  Mikal’s Thunderhawk raced across the sky, flanked on both sides by several others. The Wolf Guard captain sat at the tactical station in the control den of the aircraft, just behind the pilots’ chairs. He analysed the current deployment of the Dark Angels and sent attack plans to his battle-brothers. The other Thunderhawks peeled off, vectoring towards their assigned deployment coordinates. Mikal continued directly towards Lethe.

  The ordered city blocks and streets of the city were gone, buried in rubble and debris and obscured by smoke. Planetary defence forces scrambled to establish a perimeter, but the Dark Angels drop-pods made it impossible. Space Marines did not fight by their opponents’ rules. Drop-pod tactics were specifically random. They fell behind enemy lines, causing havoc.

  The planetary defence forces were faring better than Mikal had expected. They appeared to have highly effective defence strategies against the Space Marine invasion, and several buildings in the capital had

  become redoubts for the defending troops. The defences of Lethe were set up so each group acted under its own command and control. The Dark Angels wanted to decapitate the Hyades defence forces, but they couldn’t find a head.

  Lieutenant Paulinus and his platoon paused as he checked his map, barely able to keep up with the events that were unfolding. He kept asking himself if it was true: were the Dark Angels attacking the city? He could not believe it. They moved through the streets with orders to reinforce the southern city entrance, reporting any activity along the way.

  His hands shook as he held the map. His nervousness was impossible to hide. He’d been with the planetary defence force for just under a year, and most of that time he had been stationed in observation outposts, monitoring orbital traffic. He had requested a transfer to Lethe in hopes of gaining some recognition that might help his post-military career. Now, he wished he was still tracking transports instead of down here in the streets of Lethe, acting as bait.

  They had been moving through the streets for a while and had not come across any Dark Angels, just explosions from unseen artillery, and rubble. He could hear fighting, but the platoon couldn’t find the sources. The streets were a maze and every new street looked like the last. All Paulinus knew was that they were in the workers’ section of the city.

  Paulinus was from a rather prominent family on Hyades, and normally lived a lifestyle befitting his

  family’s wealth and prestige. The seedier section of the city was a place that he had seldom ventured into before. Carnal pleasure rooms and gambling dens lined the streets, marking this area of town as the sort of place where human filth could acquire contraband and explore their secret vices. Paulinus was disturbed that it seemed relatively unscathed.

  The men carefully stepped out into an intersection where three streets converged. Every street still looked like the last. Lieutenant Paulinus thought they were lost. He tried to think back to his younger days when he and his friends would drive down into these areas of the city. They had been callow youths looking for some cheap thrills. He had tried to distance himself from those days, but now, he needed his memories. He looked for familiar signs, for anything that would give him a clue to where they were. He saw nothing.

  They approached a building that less than a day ago had been a gambling den; now it was simply another abandoned building. Paulinus raised his hand as a signal to his men to stop. He pulled out a map as he tried once again to determine where they were. He could call in, but he didn’t want the humiliation. If his men found out, then they might lose morale.

  Using the map, he managed to orientate himself using the street layout and nearby buildings as his guide. If they headed north, they should be able to find their way back to their checkpoint. The lieutenant gestured, instructing his men to move out.

  None of them saw the Dark Angels until they opened up with their bolters. A red spray of blood

  splashed across Paulinus’s face and drenched his map as his sergeant was ripped in half by bolter fire. The lieutenant watched in horror as men all around him twisted and fell before the Dark Angels’ attack.

  Lieutenant Paulinus ran to find cover from the hailstorm of rounds. He couldn’t focus on his men, they were dying and he needed to live. After all, he had to give orders and he just didn’t want to die, not here, not like this. Paulinus looked back at the gambling den, the source of the shooting, only to see another man die on the ground behind him with his chest ripped open by a bolter round.

  Five Dark Angels strode from the gambling den, mowing down troopers as they came. Their dark green and black armour added to their aura of menace. Paulinus’s remaining men made a vain attempt to return fire, but their intense fear made their shots worthless. All of the men, including Paulinus, were shaking with shock. The Dark Angels holstered their bolters, drew their close combat weapons and charged.

  It was clear to all of them how this engagement would end. The Space Marines would slaughter them.

  The street was instantly bathed in light and a searing wind struck everyone in the street as the gambling den imploded. A cloud of dust and debris obscured everything. The defence forces clutched at their breather masks as the dust and rockcrete particles clogged their lungs and scratched their eyes. The Dark Angels continued to close.

  Lieutenant Paulinus raised his sabre, making a feeble attempt to defend himself. The Dark Angel

  advancing on him easily countered his weak thrust. The lieutenant’s arm felt numb as the Dark Angel knocked his sword away.

  Paulinus screamed, ‘I don’t want to die!’

  Then, the Space Marine’s arm exploded. The Dark Angel’s chainsword clattered to the ground. The explosive whirring of an assault cannon drowned out Paulinus’s screams.

  Five more figures emerged from the building just abandoned by the Dark Angels. They were Space Marines, but their armour was different, making them appear larger. They did not wear the dark green colour of the Dark Angels, but the icy bluish grey of the Space Wolves.

  Paulinus didn’t know what to think or hope. The newcomers moved surprisingly quickly, unleashing a volley of rounds into the Dark Angels. Taken by surprise, the Dark Angels tried to change tactics and engage the new threat, but the twin advantages of surprise and firepower made this a futile gesture. A few rounds from storm bolters and the spray of the assault cannon reduced the Dark Angels to piles of broken armour. Paulinus could not believe his eyes. He couldn’t believe how qui
ckly the new Space Marines had killed his attackers.

  The Space Wolves wore armour adorned with the totems of wolf pelts, tails, and teeth strung on leather necklaces. The ground vibrated with each of their footfalls as they moved protectively around the defence forces.

  One of the Space Wolves approached Paulinus, ‘Lieutenant, we are here to assist in the defence of

  Hyades. Berek Thunderfist sends his greetings and respects. We are his Wolfguard.’

  ‘Lieu-Lieu-Lieutenant Paulinus, Hyades defence forces, I th-th-thank you for your assistance.’ Paulinus stuttered.

  Fiery contrails streaked across the sky as drop-pod after drop-pod plummeted towards Lethe. Thunderhawks touched down, pouring Space Wolves onto the streets. Dreadnoughts lumbered through the carnage laying waste to all who opposed them. Throughout the city, Space Wolves engaged the Dark Angels.

  Mikal’s Thunderhawk circled the city while the Space Wolves reconnoitred the battle zone. Mikal knew that the best plans only lasted up to contact with the enemy. His fellow Wolf Guard were on the ground with orders to protect the citizens of Lethe and to obtain any information as to the cause of this so-called quarantine. He needed to contact the governor, but so far radio contact had been unsuccessful:

  ‘Sigurd, bring us about. Set course for the governor’s palace. Put us down on the parade ground,’ said Mikal, addressing the pilot.

  After a Space Wolf was initiated and the canis helix implanted, he truly become one of the Sons of Russ. However, it took time for all the physical changes to manifest within the Marine. These new Space Marines were designated Blood Claws. During this time of service, they learned and grew.

  Once they learned to control the wolf within and proved themselves in battle, they were promoted to the status of Grey Hunters. During this period, some Space Wolves showed an aptitude for specific skills. The Grey Hunters then trained to pilot aircraft, crew tanks and handle other attack craft.

  Sigurd was one such Grey Hunter and Mikal had grown to trust Sigurd’s instincts and respect his skills.

  The Thunderhawk banked hard, changing course as instructed, flying low over the city. Wing-mounted weapons turrets spun rapidly, firing short controlled bursts. Small-arms fire from below bounced harmlessly off its fuselage.

  Alarm sirens blared in the cockpit as anti-air defence missiles leapt into the sky, vectoring towards the Thunderhawk. Sigurd’s hands darted across the panels, tapping activation runes for defensive system counter measures. Then, pulling the control arm back hard and turning the control wheel, the Thunderhawk executed evasive manoeuvres. Sigurd evaded three of the pursuing missiles. Unfortunately, the last one was proving to be persistent.

  ‘This one’s like a pack of Fenrisian wolves on the hunt,’ Sigurd continued, executing evasive manoeuvres. ‘Brace for impact, brothers.’

  The missile struck the starboard wing, sheering off two-thirds of it. The severed section of wing struck the vertical stabiliser as it passed over the main fuselage. Sigurd struggled with the controls as the heavily armoured craft plunged towards Lethe. The

  force of the dive pushed the Space Wolf passengers against their restraints.

  Sigurd desperately attempted to regain control over his wounded craft. Fire alarms activated as the fuel escaping from the severed wing ignited. Sigurd and his flight crew could have ejected to safety, but there were three packs of Grey Hunters and an ancient one in the transport hold. He had to bring this craft down safely, his crew would not abandon their passengers.

  Mikal heard Sigurd curse under his breath, ‘By Russ, Mikal will owe us a barrel of ale when this is all over, and not that swill he usually gets! I want the good stuff Sigurd’s co-pilot laughed, as did Mikal.

  The Thunderhawk shook and shuddered, as if trying to tear itself apart. Sigurd levelled the aircraft out as it raced on its crash course; he had done everything he could. The Thunderhawk was too badly damaged. They would crash, hard and fast. There was only one last tactic he could try.

  Something caught Mikal’s ear. Among all the clutter of noises, he heard singing. He swung his seat around and looked into the cockpit to see Sigurd and his crew belting out an old Fenrisian song about heroic deeds, courage and friendship. He simply grinned and joined them. Soon every passenger on board did the same.

  They were still singing when the nose of the Thunderhawk ploughed into the ground. Mikal heard the impact and the sound of metal shearing away before the force of the crash rendered him unconscious.

  *

  Mikal awoke, still strapped into his seat. The walls and ceiling of the Thunderhawk were misshapen. He saw several of his battle-brothers slumped in their restraints. His head was spinning, and he could feel where the straps had held him in place. He wasn’t sure exactly what had happened after the initial impact.

  Slapping the quick release, he unbuckled his restraints and attempted to stand. He rose to his feet, reeled and stumbled forwards. He had survived the crash with only minor bumps and scratches, the worst of which was on his forehead. Touching his fingers to his injury, he felt blood, but he was alive.

  The emergency security door completely blocked the cockpit. The door was designed to protect the crew from fire or debris. It must have activated on impact. Mikal tried to force the door open, but it wouldn’t budge. He looked for something to use to pry the door open, but saw nothing. Suddenly, the shrieking sound of metal on metal pierced his ears. The sound was so intense Mikal had to cover his ears. Turning towards the source of the noise, he saw a claw protrude through the bulkhead of the Thunderhawk, and then the bulkhead wall simply ripped open. Standing outside the newly formed exit was the massive form of Dreadnought Gymir.

  Mikal shook his head to help clear his senses. The once proud ship lay atop a pile of rockcrete and glass rubble, twisted and broken, like an animal with a snapped neck. Mikal could see plumes of smoke rising in the early light of dawn, and rubble in all directions.

  ‘Mikal, it is good to see that you are alive.’ said Gymir the Dreadnought. Mikal thought that the electronically generated voice sounded relieved.

  ‘Yes, ancient one, I am alive.’ Mikal said as he clambered out of the makeshift opening.

  On its descent, Mikal could see that the Thunderhawk had struck the top of a building, knocking apart the upper floors before crashing into the street, creating a trench as it gouged itself to a halt. The nose of the ship was completely buried in rubble and debris. Several Grey Hunters had set up a perimeter around the crash site, while others searched the wreckage for fallen battle-brothers. Mikal searched for Sigurd, but his comrade wasn’t among the living. He glanced at the cockpit canopy where a large plasteel support beam jutted through the framework. Mikal bent his knee and mourned the loss of his old friend.

  NINE

  Dilemma of Belisarius

  Smoke hung heavily in the air rank with the stench of burning flesh, machine fuel and the residue of promethium. Buildings that had stood for decades were nothing more than burned-out shells. Craters riddled the ground from repeated artillery bombardments. Pieces of bodies lay scattered throughout the ruins, all that was left of victims who were unable to get to the bunkers in time to avoid the shelling. Water from ruptured underground lines flowed freely through the streets, winding its way through the rubble and debris, filling craters and turning the newly exposed dirt to mud.

  Impact tremors created ripple effects on the surface of the standing water, first one, followed by another, then another, the intensity increasing with

  each one. A large beetle, disturbed by the vibrations, scurried out of one piece of debris in a mad dash for the protection of another.

  A mechanical footpad crushed the beetle and the rubble beneath it. The Dreadnought Gymir the Ice-Fisted surveyed the landscape. He’d seen bombed out streets before, having served the Imperium for centuries. He had been recruited from some forgotten battlefield on Fenris, and served as a Space Marine for hundreds of years until he was so badly injured that even the Wolf Priests were unable
to mend his wounds. However, they were not willing to risk the loss of Gymir’s decades of experience and knowledge, so the honour of eternal service was bestowed upon him with the privilege of entombment within one of the ancient Dreadnought sarcophagi. From within his metal shell, Gymir was a living keeper of the Space Wolf lineage. He spent his time resting deep within the Fang until called upon to serve once more.

  Gymir slowly traversed the rubble. His visual sensors, much more efficient than genetically enhanced eyes, swept the debris field as he advanced. The holy assault cannon that formed his arm tracked first left and then right. His power claw opened and closed instinctively, in anticipation of impending conflict.

  His heavy footfalls sent vibrations through the ground. Dreadnoughts were not known for their ability to sneak up on the enemy. Gymir did not hide his presence. His visual sensors allowed him to separate organic heat signatures from artificial ones and identify them. He sensed a potential threat hiding

  behind the rubble twenty metres straight ahead. Locking his assault cannon on the possible threat, he continued forwards, stopping fifteen metres from the target.

  The signal was too small to be a Space Marine. Dark Angels were treacherous, but not cowardly. His quarry would not be able to hide from him for long.

  ‘Stand and be recognised,’ Gymir’s mechanical voice commanded.

  A solitary figure slowly rose from behind the debris, his empty hands raised above his head. Gymir recognised the uniform of a planetary defence force officer, although the cloth was tattered, torn and blood-soaked from the soldier’s numerous injuries. The man’s face was badly burnt, and his left cheek was swollen enough for his eye to be forced shut. Blood trickled from both of his ears.

  ‘Don’t fire. I’m not armed.’ the officer stated.

  From this closer vantage point, Gymir detected eight other heat signatures, hidden throughout the debris. Gymir advanced towards the officer. ‘Identify yourself.’ he said, his deep mechanical voice leaving no doubts as to his intentions. The officer limped slightly as he stepped further from cover, moving slowly so as not to appear threatening.